


there's a menace in my bed

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Episode: s03e09 Closure, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks he was dreaming. It must have been a bad one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a menace in my bed

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've managed to write in more than a WEEK. Literally, until today, I hadn't written a single word of fic since the last thing I posted. So it is a RELIEF, let me tell you.
> 
> Title is from Halsey's _Trouble_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant wakes to a sense of relief that washes away just as quickly as it floods in. The source of it slips through his fingers like water with equal speed.

He thinks he was dreaming. It must have been a bad one.

Whatever the reason for his passing relief, it’s obvious he’s alone in it. Jemma groans into his chest, and as he reaches over to silence his alarm, her fingers dig into his skin.

“No,” she mumbles.

“No what?” he asks, settling back onto his pillow. He really should be getting out of bed already, but Jemma is a soft, warm weight against his side and he’s loath to move her.

“No getting up,” she says. She nuzzles his shoulder, the arm slung across his torso tightening. “It’s far too early.”

“Sorry, baby,” he says, the endearment tripping off his tongue before he can stop it. Maybe it really _is_ too early; it’s been a long time since he slipped like that.

Luckily, Jemma’s still half-asleep, and doesn’t seem to notice his choice of words—or the second he takes to fight back the wave of grief for Kara that rolls through him. He’ll never be far enough from the day he lost her for the empty space in his heart not to hurt. Never.

He clears his throat to ease the tightness in it, then continues, “Unfortunately, global terrorist organizations don’t run themselves. I gotta get to work.”

She makes a dismissive noise, one leg curling over both of his.

“Bugger HYDRA,” she says. “Wouldn’t you rather stay here with me? We could sleep some more…” Her lips brush his shoulder. “…or do something more interesting, if that doesn’t suit.”

It’s tempting—painfully so—but he’s got work to do. He sighs regretfully.

“Sorry, Jem,” he says, careful to use the right word this time. “I gotta get going.”

“No, you don’t,” she argues, pushing herself up and over to straddle him. “What could you _possibly_ have to do that’s more important than me?”

The light (which is way brighter than it should be; did he set the alarm for the right time?) shining through the window falls directly onto her, making a halo of her hair. She’s pale in the sunshine, her skin almost _glowing_ , and the shirt she’s wearing—one of his—is slipping off one shoulder to give him a tantalizing glimpse of the marks along her collarbone. She’s beautiful.

Most importantly, she’s all his.

“It’s a fair question,” he admits, “but—”

He loses track of his sentence as her hands rub up his abs and across his chest. Her touch is feather-light, just barely enough pressure to put every single one of his nerves on edge, and somehow, without really meaning to, he finds himself gripping her thighs.

“Admit it,” she murmurs, shifting back even as she leans down, so her kiss lands on his chest instead of his mouth, “there’s nothing in the world outside that can compare to me.”

She kisses and bites her way down his chest, and he fists his hands in the sheets beneath him, fighting himself. There are things he needs to do, things he has to take care of—

His control snaps as cold fingers curl around his hard, aching cock, and with a muttered, “Fuck it,” he rolls her under him to bury himself between her thighs.

She laughs joyfully, legs just as tight around his waist as his hands are around her wrists. There’s no playful struggle this morning; she doesn’t fight his hold, she welcomes it. She arches up into him as his lips find that spot on her neck, and her whimpering gasps drive him on.

It’s a perfect moment—her sweet sounds, her wet heat, the taste of her skin—and it draws out into an eternity.

But not even eternity is long enough, and it’s no time at all before her muscles are tightening around him. Regretfully, he releases one of her wrists and snakes his hand between them to rub at her clit, hard and fast like she likes it, and that’s all it takes.

She comes, screaming, and the sensation is enough to bring his body over the edge…even as his mind is cast out of it by her screams.

He’s heard her scream before, but never like this.

Her screams before were terrified, pained, _pleading_ , while he—

While he—

“What the _fuck_ —?”

He throws himself back, away from her and off the bed, and when he hits the ground and rolls to his feet, he’s not naked anymore. It only registers because the last time he was wearing this camo (well, more than _this_ ; all he’s got are his pants), he was fully armed.

But there are no weapons in his pockets, no holsters anywhere on his body, and no gun in his waistband. Just him in his bedroom at Nemesis base with a naked woman who’s never set foot in it. A woman who would probably sooner  _die_ than set foot in it (or anywhere else he asks her to), considering what he did to her the last time he saw her.

“Well, drat,” the aforementioned naked woman (and wasn’t she wearing his shirt earlier? Where did it go?) sighs, pushing herself up to sit. “I was hoping that would last longer.”

Jemma—no, not Jemma, _Simmons_ …except he’s got a feeling it’s not her, either—crosses her legs and props an elbow on her knee, resting her cheek against her fist as she gives him an admiring look.

“You _are_ a strong one, aren’t you?” she all but purrs. “Only my astronaut figured it out faster, and he has _years_ of experience on you.”

“You’re not Simmons,” he says, positive now. His heart is pounding in his chest in a way that’s got nothing to do with the sex they just had.

Or did they? Now that he’s not lost in it, he remembers just how many times he’s had this dream, Simmons in his bed—beside and on top of and beneath him. (It’s not his fault; she tried to _kill him_ , for God’s sake, how is he supposed to resist that?) How much of this is just in his head?

“Oh, you are clever,” she says, pleased. “No, my love. I’m not Jemma, and this isn’t real.”

No use going for any of his guns, then—although he itches to try it anyway.

“Who the fuck are you, then?” he demands. “What’s going…”

He trails off as the rest of the memory hits.

The planet.

“You’re…the Inhuman,” he says, slowly. “Aren’t you?”

She applauds happily. “Yes! Well done! My name is Maveth.” She gives him a little wave. “Hello.”

“Why do you look like Simmons?” he demands.

If it’s just to throw him off balance, it’s working. Even knowing it’s not really her, his fingers are itching with the need to touch her. He wants to get back on the bed, bury his fingers in her tangled hair, finish tasting every inch of her skin.

But it’s not the real her, and it wouldn’t be _her_ skin. He can’t have the real Simmons any more than he can have Kara back. (Not that he’d _want_ her if he could have Kara back.)

“Do you like?” Maveth asks, trailing her fingers across her collarbone. The bruises there—marks he’s only ever dreamed of leaving on Simmons—taunt him. “I couldn’t resist, once I saw just how many of you have my Jemma in your heads.” Her expression turns slightly wistful. “Not that I can blame you. We’ve missed her since she left.”

“We?” he asks warily. He reminds himself that this is the person—or monster—that scared Simmons enough that she kept quiet in the face of the worst he could throw at her. It doesn’t matter how vulnerable she looks, naked in his bed; she’s a threat. “There’s more than one of you?”

“Sadly, no,” she sighs. “I’m…unique. But I’m not _alone_ ; my astronaut has stayed to keep me company for years and years.” She leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “He was lonely, though, and when my Jemma came he fell in love very, very quickly.” Her lips purse in disapproval. “It was very unkind of him to get in my way when I tried to stop her from leaving.”

Her astronaut?

…Daniels. He remembers now—remembers all but tripping over the man as soon as the sandstorm ended, remembers that Fitz was the only one of them not surprised—that Daniels and Fitz seemed to recognize each other. Remembers that neither looked very pleased to see the other, but Daniels led them to shelter anyway. And then…

And then Maveth showed up, and the next thing he knew, his alarm was going off.

“So this is some kind of sick mind game,” Grant concludes. “Making me think I’m fucking Simmons to…what? Keep me off my guard?”

“Eh.” Maveth rocks a hand back and forth. “Yes and no. I used my Jemma’s form to distract you, but this?” She spreads her hands wide, and heat stirs in his gut at the way the light frames her breasts. Part of him—a very specific part—really couldn’t care less that she’s not Simmons. “This is all you, my love. Your mind created the illusion and the scenario. I wasn’t even here until you figured it out.”

He rolls his shoulders, discomfited by the information—by the _lie_. Why should he believe a single word she says?

“Oh, dear,” she murmurs, eyes searching his face. “Does that upset you? Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one. My astronaut has the same dreams—and so does my Jemma’s Fitz.” Her eyes drift away, and she hums thoughtfully. “He hasn’t seen through it yet, though. You know, for as much as my Jemma thought of him, I really did expect better. Poor broken boy.”

The whole _my Jemma_ thing is really starting to piss him off, but he forces it aside. He’s got bigger issues here.

“What is this about?” he asks. “What is it you want?”

Whatever it was he was expecting when Malick asked him to lead the team through the portal, this wasn’t it.

Maveth sighs and slumps back against the pillows.

“HYDRA,” she says, stretching one arm up and studying the splay of her fingers. “Always so sure that someone wants something.”

“Someone always does,” he says. “It’s human—and Inhuman—nature.”

Her arm falls back to her side, and she smiles. “True enough.”

“So?” he prompts. “What do you want, and why does it involve fucking with my head?”

“It was a gift,” she claims, sitting up again. “A pleasant dream to keep you warm while I…went looking.”

Grant…really doesn’t like that tone. Or that pause.

“Looking for what?” he asks, wary.

“Answers,” she says.

She crawls to the edge of the bed and sits there, feet left dangling thanks to the raised platform his bed is on. It’s been a while since Grant’s seen Simmons’ bare legs (those two weeks the team spent in Santa Monica were a lot of fun, even if he wasn’t in a state to enjoy them at the time), but he’s pretty sure the green tattoo climbing up her left calf like ivy is all Maveth. It helps, a little, in fighting the desire that’s only building, the longer she spends sitting there naked.

(What can he say? He’s only human.)

“For so many centuries, HYDRA has sent me company.” She makes a face. “Man after man after man—some who came seeking me, some who didn’t. None of them were worthy until my astronaut, and he was one of the ones who came unaware.”

“And I’m aware.”

“You came to bring me home.” She slides off the bed, and, thankfully, the moment her feet hit the ground, she’s no longer naked. The dress she’s wearing is weird—like woven seaweed—but it makes it easier to remember she’s not really Simmons. “I needed to know whether I should let you.”

Malick never mentioned the possibility of the Inhuman not _wanting_ to come back. “And?”

“The three you brought with you will blindly follow orders,” she says, wandering away from him to examine the TV on the dresser. She doesn’t turn it on, just runs her hands along the sides. “Footmen. Cannon fodder. Useless.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” he agrees. It must not be just his head she’s been digging through; he files that away.

“My Jemma’s Fitz isn’t here to bring me home,” she continues. “He’s here to steal my astronaut. Rude.” She tsks, but her expression softens as she looks at her reflection in the TV screen. “But he does love my Jemma, and he wants to steal him for her. I suppose I can forgive him.”

She moves on, away from the TV, trailing her fingers along the edge of the dresser.

“But you,” she muses, “my Grant, you’re something entirely new.”

Being called _her_ Grant grates even more than her claim to Simmons. He tamps down his surge of irritation.

“Oh yeah?” he asks. “How’s that?”

He wonders if new is good or bad. He’s got no doubt he could overpower her physically, but that’s not gonna do much good while they’re stuck in his head.

And he’s got no idea how to get _out_.

“You want to _use_ me,” she says, sounding weirdly delighted. “All the ones who came before who knew about me wanted to worship me. To let me conquer the old planet and do with it as I would. To let me lead HYDRA. But not you. Not Grant Ward.”

She turns on her heel and prowls across the room to where he’s been standing, motionless, this whole time. It’s only as she approaches that he realizes that he _can’t_ move, that his bare feet are anchored to the floor.

“You want to use my power for your own ends,” she murmurs, stopping scant inches away from him. “You want to _take_ what _isn’t yours_.”

Maveth reaches for his face, and when he tries to block her—just because she’s easier to resist now that she’s not naked doesn’t mean letting her touch him might not break him—his hands go right through her. She could be made of smoke.

But the fingers that grip his jaw are solid and warm.

“You,” she breathes, and for all that it’s so quiet it reverberates in his skull, “I _like_.”

She pulls him down—or maybe he leans; he can’t feel anything, not really, so he can’t say—and her lips meet his. He closes his eyes—

—and opens them on a cave lit by not-really-sunlight.

The three men he brought as back-up are slumped against the far wall, motionless. He can’t be positive from here, but he’s pretty sure they’re not breathing.

Fitz is asleep in the corner, snoring quietly, with a wide-awake Daniels standing in front of him, clutching a machete like a lifeline. Guarding him, Grant thinks, and is distracted before he can remember why it’s weird.

The woman who moves into his eye line looks nothing like Simmons, but the smile that curves her lips is familiar.

“Maveth,” he says. Her smile widens.

“Welcome back,” she says, and pets his cheek. “It’s time to go.”

It’s a relief she’s wearing a different face, now. This one is pretty—gorgeous, even—but it doesn’t provoke the same kind of _want_ that Simmons’ does.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks. He’s unsteady—lightheaded—and finds he needs the help of the wall at his back to stand. “And where are we going?”

“Home, of course.” She glances over her shoulder to smile at Daniels. “The four of us are all going home.”

Daniels’ jaw shifts, and though his throat works like he’s about to speak, he stays quiet. The look he’s aiming at Grant is a hell of a lot frostier than the one he was wearing before their apparently collective mind-fuck.

“What’s with him?” Grant asks.

Maveth tsks. “He would have tried to stop me from leaving this planet, even if it meant killing all of you—and himself. He needed motivation to accompany us home.” She pats Grant’s arm. “I showed him what you did to my Jemma. He’s very unhappy.”

_She_ doesn’t sound too bothered, though. Something twists in his stomach.

“Right,” he says, and pushes down his own reaction in order to offer Daniels an apologetic shrug. Daniels’ glare kicks up a notch. “We gonna wake Fitz?”

“Let him sleep,” Maveth says, dismissively, and floats—there’s no other word for it—away to press a hand to a nearby wall. “He’d only cause trouble. You’ll carry him, won’t you, my Will?”

Daniels looks like he wants to refuse, but after a long second—a long second he spends staring into space—he swallows.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’ll carry him.”

“Thank you,” Maveth says, sweetly. “Don’t worry; we’ll be home in no time, and you and my Jemma will be reunited, as you should be.”

Daniels’ expression tightens, but all he does is slowly, reluctantly tuck the machete away and bend to pick up Fitz.

“Time to go,” Maveth says again, and the cave wall disappears under her hand, leaving them facing the vast, empty expanse of the planet. “Come along, my dears.”

Grant, personally, would really like some answers first. Answers like what exactly Maveth has planned for when they get back to Earth, what significance her _liking_ him has, and what the chances of him getting anything he wants are.

(He’s got a sinking feeling the answer to that last question is ‘not great.’)

But Maveth is already moving, setting off across the sand, and he’s not willing to risk being stranded here. So instead of pressing, he follows—leaving the clearly-seething Daniels a wide berth.

But as he does so, he tries a little experiment, just to see if Maveth is still in his head. None of the thoughts he can come up with—no matter how filthy, violent, sappy, or weird—get so much as a twitch out of her. She could just have a good poker face, but…

He thinks of her earlier words, the mention that Daniels got in her way when she tried to stop Simmons from leaving. She’s not omnipotent, then. Powerful, yes—more powerful than he’s really comfortable with, if he’s honest—but not omnipotent. And not, he doesn’t think, invincible.

Here in the real world, his favorite gun is a reassuring weight at his side. He’s got others, too—on his person and back at the base.

If things with Maveth don’t go the way they’ve planned, he can take her down. He’s sure of it. He hopes it won’t be necessary—hopes she really is what Malick promised—but if it is, he can handle it.

It won’t be quick and it _won’t_ be easy, but that’s okay. He’s not HYDRA’s best for nothing.

He’s a survivor. He’ll do what it takes to come out on top, whether that means working _with_ Maveth or ripping her apart.

Besides…if the job was easy, it wouldn’t be any fun.


End file.
